


Little, Brothers

by paxlux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, de-aged boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet makes him restless because he just knows that something is happening somewhere and it ain't good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little, Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> AU, with de-aged boys. Written a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

It's a quiet day, a rare one, sunshine slanting in through the windows, dust motes floating as Bobby turns a page. 

The quiet makes him restless because he just knows that something is happening somewhere and it ain't good. At all. 

He tugs on his cap and hunkers back down to reading about roots and runes and he's losing the restless feeling, legs tucked under his chair. 

The phone rings. 

"Dammit." 

The caller ID says _Sam_. 

The restlessness is back in full force, getting worse, eating him up like ants as the phone rings in his hand. 

"Yeah?" 

"Bobby, hey.” It's Sam, not Dean on Sam's phone and for some reason, Bobby thought it would be Dean, maybe because the itching has left his veins and settled in his stomach, waves of nausea. 

There's a crash in the background and Dean yelling, "Mother _fucker_!" then Sam's saying, "Uh, Bobby, I think we've, uh, we've run into some trouble and I..." His voice is weird, thin, then there's a loud bang, like a gun going off and Dean is shouting, "The car, Sam, get to the car! NOW!" 

"You boys get your asses up here." Bobby can't keep the sigh back, rolling his eyes, and Sam says, "Thanks, we should be—" 

Clatter as if he’s dropped the phone, then Bobby's left with a dial tone. 

"Dammit." 

He can't help but worry even though he also knows they'll bring one hell of a story with them. 

He could do with some amusement. 

Nothing to do except wait. And not worry. Nope. 

** 

It's starting to get late, the sunlight shifting and throwing shadows. Bobby's trying to read, sitting, not pacing, no, he's not pacing with a beer in his hand, he's reading. 

Not looking out the window for the black gleam of car. 

Nope. Reading. Runes. 

The bottle is in a puddle of condensation and he's licking his finger to turn the page when he hears it, there, at the edges, a rumble that he'd recognize anywhere. 

He stays at the table. He's reading. He's not their mother. Or their father. His sigh flips the page and he swallows the dregs of his beer. 

Waiting. 

A car door slams, one, and...just one, not two. That gets Bobby on his feet. Glance out the window and sure enough, there's the Impala, chrome blinding beauty in the setting sun. 

Knock on the door; Bobby yanks it open, the knob rattling. 

He expects Dean, probably dusty and exasperated, bleeding, looking ready to murder something; Sam behind him, shoulders taking up the rest of the doorway, hair in his eyes, looking sheepish and smug. 

No one. 

Bobby can't take this. "Dammit." 

"Hey Bobby." 

There are two urchins on his porch, barefoot, covered in what looks like soot, tracks on their faces and necks cleared by sweat and small fingers. They stare up at him, a pair of clear green eyes, a pair of slanted hazel. The oldest wears an expression of utter disgust that Bobby knows he's seen before; the younger crosses his arms and his face settles into a tight set of lines, a temper tantrum just waiting to happen. 

They're almost lost in the t-shirts they're wearing and the little one keeps curling his toes around the hem of his shirt. 

Shifting his weight, the older boy says, "You gonna invite us in?" with a wave of his hand and something clinks onto the floorboards. 

Quick as a wink, the younger one darts forward and snatches it up. "I told you to put this in your duffel." He looks at Bobby, shaking his head. "It keeps falling off." Cheeks scrunching, forehead wrinkled, he makes a big show of thinking, then he holds up a silver ring between his fingers and says, "I think I'll keep it." 

"No, you little bitch, you'll give it back right now before I kick your ass." A shove accompanies the words and when the boy moves, there's a glint of gold on his chest. 

Bobby just stares. 

"Dean." 

Wide pleading eyes in the dirty face, the kid says, " _Please_ tell me you have some beer." 

The door almost shuts on them because Bobby's laughing so hard he has to sit down. 

** 

They're in the kitchen and Bobby gets himself another beer as Sam climbs into a chair, short little legs swinging, Dean running water over some towels. 

"Here, Sammy." Dean hands him a towel, wiping at his own dirty forehead. Bobby chuckles into his beer as Sam plants his face in the towel and rubs with his tiny hands. 

"I'm glad you're enjoying this," Dean says, pure venom in his high child voice. 

"You bet I'm enjoying this. This is fine entertainment. I'm old and I need all the laughs I can get." 

Sam grunts behind his towel. "This is all Dean's fault. That’s a given." He emerges from the damp fabric still sooty in places and something jerks inside Bobby. 

He remembers this, remembers them this young. Sam looks like he's about five, Dean nine and any minute, John's going to come striding into the kitchen, giving the boys orders to go wear themselves out, play hide-and-seek amongst the wrecks of Bobby's yard while they discuss demon movements and witches' hexes. 

"Hold still, Sammy, do you really want me to punch you? I will." 

Dean's got Sam by the chin, cleaning his nose forcibly and Sam's struggling, "Get offa me, bastard, this isn't fair." 

"Not my fault you're small enough to manhandle." 

"It is too your fault! You ran your mouth and I don't think he appreciated you saying that his face looked like someone had pissed on him! Imagine that, Dean, _you_ getting _us_ cursed!" 

And just like that, the fight's on, the two of them rolling around like puppies, wrestling their way under Bobby's table. 

Bobby admits it to himself as he sets the bottle down and kneels to grab one wriggling boy by the collar then the other, he admits that he's missed this when he could pick them both up and resolve all their problems so easily. 

Sam tucked under one arm and Dean stumbling tiptoe as Bobby carry-walks him to the couch. He plops Sam on one end and Dean on the other and he's really struggling not to laugh, he's trying, he's losing, he can't help it as both of them glare up at him. 

Dean points at his brother, says, "He started it!" and that's it, Bobby's done, collapsing with laughter into a chair. 

** 

When he's gained some control, Bobby says, "First things first," but Dean interrupts him, holding up a hand. 

"Beer. Please. I need a drink." 

His stomach hurts from laughing so much and Bobby runs a hand over his face because there's nothing left to do but laugh some more. They're going to kill him. 

"I ain't giving you a drink. Look at you!" He cuts at the air, indicating Dean's shorter stature. "You'd be drunk faster'n you could say boo. 'Sides, you're about nine or so and..." 

"Yeah, Dean, you hafta be 21," Sam pipes up. Curled against one corner of the couch, he shoots a glare at his brother. 

Dean returns the glare tenfold. "Shut up, Sammy." 

"Just try and make me, asshole!" 

And Bobby knows they haven't regressed, but it must be seeing each other so much younger that makes Dean revert to calling his brother Sammy every time now, makes Sam so defensive and petulant and challenging. 

He's so glad they don't have to drive anywhere. 

"Wait, how did you two get here? What happened?" The questions pop out as Sam's about to launch himself at Dean and his body flops down with a sigh bigger than he is. 

"Sammy went first and lemme tell ya, Bobby, it was weird," Dean says, leaning forward, palms on his knees. "I'm driving and he starts...going backwards." 

"Backwards?" 

"Yeah, getting younger and younger. He wasn't melting, more like shedding or something." 

"You make me sound like some bizarre kind of animal, Dean!" 

"Well, you are, Sasquatch – hey, you aren't a sasquatch anymore!" Dean dissolves into giggles and now Bobby's getting a headache. 

Must've been all that laughing. 

He hears Dean say, "Molting," then Sam huffs and Bobby talks fast before he has to break them up. 

"So you're driving and Sam just shrinks?" 

Sam huffs again, a mutinous five-year-old and memories come in a wave, Sam holding his ground as John raised his voice in fear and anger because Sam wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't do what he asked. 

As Dean glances at Sam, Bobby remembers Dean hunching to Sam's eye level, whispering through the snuffles, Sam nodding before pushing his face into Dean's shoulder. 

Dean always smoothed it over and fixed things. 

Now Dean's waving his arms as he talks about how they almost wrecked because Sam was in his lap, clinging to him. 

"My baby almost went into the ditch, head first! So I pulled off the road and I barely got us stopped—" 

"Then he started 'molting' too," Sam cheerfully interrupts, "It was actually pretty funny, Bobby, he was yelling and his voice kept getting squeakier and squeakier." 

Grumbling, Dean kicks his feet against the couch. "Fucker." 

"Language!" 

They all stare at each other in surprise, Sam's mouth in a little O, Dean's eyes big and Bobby almost drops his beer. 

He can't believe he just said that. 

"Dude, I think you're grounded." 

Tone smug, twenty years older than he looks, Sam is smirking, dimples and all. 

** 

“So we’re on the side of the road, Sam’s almost smothering in his clothes and I’m,” Dean pats his chest in a self-conscious movement, “well, this. I can reach the pedals, but—“ 

“He was worried. Thought he wouldn’t be able to drive right, see over the dash and stuff,” Sam says, eyes going to the ceiling, “and his jeans kept getting in the way and—“ 

“Anyway, I steered and—“ 

“He made me work the pedals!” Sam sounds so indignant, hands on his hips. “I was all scrunched down there and, Bobby, he may love that car, but he doesn’t clean it enough; it was kinda gross, all— “ 

Bobby slaps his knees to call a halt to proceedings and, as if on cue, Sam’s stomach grumbles. “All right, food.” He stands, Dean hops off the couch and Sam frowns, face pinched, scrambling to get down until Dean picks him up under his arms. 

The shirts twist around them, so big and loose and they’re there, looking at Bobby, Dean holding Sam, Sam still dangling a few inches off the ground. 

“Dammit.” 

“What?” Dean asks, hefting Sam who’s trying to reach the floor, turning in Dean’s grasp. 

“Asshole! Let me go, Dean!” 

“Dean, let your brother go,” Bobby says absentmindedly, worried about more pressing matters. “Clothes, you boys need clothes, we can’t go eat with you two dressed like that.” Then he stops, squints. “You wearing underwear?” 

He doesn’t really want to know, but has to ask. 

Dean snorts and Sam laughs, the tiny beginnings of the unrestrained laugh he’ll have later…now…when he’s bigger…this is making Bobby’s head hurt more. 

“Suzy Homemaker here had some safety pins,” Dean says, hitching Sam up for Bobby’s inspection. “Claims they’re useful.” 

“They are, Dean. Helped with our underwear ‘problem.’” Sam lets go of Dean to make air quotes, little fingers curling. Dean snorts again and Sam elbows him. “Just you wait, next time I have to stitch you up, I’ll just use safety pins, you whiny baby.” 

“You’re smaller than me. Again,” Dean smirks, finally dropping his brother. “Who’s the baby?” 

As he sighs, watching them wrestle, Bobby hopes this doesn’t last long. 

Then he leans down, separates them. “First, bath,” he says, pointing at them because they’re still filthy, their clean faces shining through the mess of shirts and soot. “Then, pants. Food. After that, we’ll figure out how to reverse this. Got it?” 

They nod in unison. 

“You got any more safety pins?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Used them all on our boxers.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says and Bobby should be wary of that grin, he should know better, but he doesn’t apparently. Like he’s yanking a curtain, Dean pulls up Sam’s shirt to show off their handwork, Sam’s boxers folded over at the waist, along the legs, at the hems, silver like staples everywhere. Sam shuffles, hands out as if to say _ta-da_ , stacking his feet, one on top of the other, balancing. 

Bobby nods seriously, hand covering his smile, carefully deciding what to say next. He clears his throat. “Uh, good job.” 

Dean crosses his arms, bursting with pride and Sam leans into his brother, grinning. 

John’s training probably never went that far, the proper application of safety pins, but Bobby’s proud of them too. 

“Bath.” 

** 

He switches on the tap and goes to fetch towels as the tub fills. Dean gives him a _you’ve got to be kidding_ look when Bobby says, “Strip and pile in.” 

Sam starts gathering up his t-shirt without a word, but Dean doesn’t move. 

“What. I’m not gonna let you two shower separately. Last thing I need is Sam drowning.” Bobby stops when Sam turns startled eyes on him. “You know, ‘cuz he’s not…” Hands in the air, _tall_ , “…himself.” 

He hears Sam sigh as the curly head disappears under the folds of the shirt; Dean sighs too, pulling at his collar, then pauses. 

Bobby gets the hint; “Oh, for pete’s sake, you used to run around practically naked until you were twelve,” and leaves. But he doesn’t go far, waiting to hear twin splashes. 

It’s Sam in his five-year-old voice saying, “Fuck you, I can wash myself!” that makes Bobby finally hurry away before they can hear his bark of laughter. 

But he’s back soon enough when the door squeaks open and there’s a flurry of feet. He follows a trail of wet footprints until he catches them in the act trying to sneak extra towels into the bathroom. 

The floor is flooded (Bobby thanks his lucky stars for tiles), water dripping down the walls. They simply stare at his frown, a united front before Dean shrugs and Sam’s pointing at Dean. 

All Dean says is, “Little punk needed a dunking.” 

** 

A few cut-up pairs of old slacks, pieces of rope cinched around their waists, shirts cropped to a better length, barefoot and they’re in Bobby’s back seat, Sam saying, “Tom Sawyer,” and Dean replying, “Dude, I am Huck Finn.” 

“Sorry about the diner, boys, but I don’t have enough food. Gotta make a shopping trip,” Bobby says. 

“Good thinking, Bobby, you’ll need a ton of food,” Dean calls out over the noise of the bumpy road. “Sammy’s a growing boy.” 

“Shut up, Dean.” 

“Hey, what is that?” 

Bobby glances in the mirror and sees Sam fiddling with something. “Whatcha got there, Sam?” 

They both look at him funny before Sam holds it up. Dean’s ring. 

“Give that back!” Dean snatches at it, but Sam’s too quick. 

Soon enough, another tussle, gravel crunching, Bobby pulls the car off the road. 

“I cannot wait to get you two back to normal!” he yells and they freeze, hands gripping shirts and arms. “Hand it over!” Snapping his fingers, “Now, Sam!” 

Dean makes a noise of protest, but stops at Bobby’s expression and Bobby feels a moment of satisfaction. Sam puts his hand in Bobby’s, fingers unwinding around the ring and it strikes him again just how _small_ they are, how long it’s been since they’ve been like this. 

He roots around, finds some insulated electrical wire and loops it through the ring, tying off the straggly ends. “Here.” 

Hastily, Sam takes it back, putting the improvised necklace around his neck. Bobby anticipates another fight (he’s lost count how many there’ve been), but after a long minute, Dean just thumps his brother on the chest. 

Silence to the diner, Bobby glancing periodically at them, but they’re staring out the windows, Sam fallen snug against Dean. 

Pulling into the parking lot, he’s thinking quickly, trying to come up with some stories. “Ok, you’re my nephews. Visiting. It’s summer, so that’s easy. Got it?” 

They nod, piling out of the car in a jumble of limbs. His story about their lack of shoes sounds lame, “mud puddles, I had to wash them, they’re still in the dryer,” but Sam purses his mouth, as if he’s taking it under advisement and Dean shrugs. 

“Should be ok,” he says as they climb the stairs. 

“Gee, thanks for your approval.” 

At the threshold, Bobby can’t help it: Dean opens the door, ushering Sam through, holding it to give to Bobby and as they step inside, his hands come down on their heads. 

Dean _growls_. 

And in revenge, Bobby pats him. Hard. 

Another growl, back of Dean’s throat. Bobby thinks, _I’m trying, John, I’m trying_. 

Like a reflex, he tousles Sam’s hair. 

“Bobby, man, you ok?” Under his hand, Sam’s twisted to peer at him. 

A woman breezes by, waving a coffee pot. “Hey Bobby, where ya been?” She indicates the diner with a sweep of her arm. “You know the drill, wherever you wanna sit.” 

Darting out from Bobby’s grasp, Dean leads them to a booth, tucking Sam into the seat first by the window, following after him and Bobby settles in across from them. A girl wanders up, her hips sashaying in small half-circles, her nametag (Judith) bouncing in rhythm, a little younger than Sam, well, not now, but when he’s his regular age and yeah, this is really giving Bobby a headache. 

Dean smiles brightly as she bends over to hand them menus; he’s about to drawl something (Bobby’s seen that glint in his eye before) when Sam elbows him and he yelps, feet kicking the table. 

And Bobby’s seen that look on Sam, the little twist of jealousy when his big brother would turn all his attention on a pretty girl, before he grew out of showing how much he wanted Dean’s approval. Doesn’t matter that Sam gets 110% of Dean. Doesn’t matter that Dean’s attention is always on Sam even when he doesn’t know it. 

Bobby wants to tell them how cute they are. 

“You ok there, little man?” Judith asks, her smile kid-friendly as she drops down to their eye level, resting her chin on her arms. “What would you gentlemen like to drink?” 

Iced tea for Bobby, Dean’s saying, “Coff—“ and Sam cuts him off, burbling, “Milk, please!” 

“Milk it is then, so polite!” She nods at Dean. “Milk for you, too?” 

Rolling his eyes, his face red, Dean says, “Sure.” 

Judith walks away, then Sam hisses in shrill disdain, “You can’t flirt with her, dumbass! You’re _nine_!”

Before Dean can reply, she’s back with their drinks and the older women swings by again, calling, “I’ll be there in a minute!” 

Giving the boys straws, Judith says to Sam, “You like to draw? I think we’ve got some crayons around here somewhere…” 

Sam fidgets with his shirt, Dean smirking as he stabs his straw into his milk and Bobby sips his tea, nonchalantly waiting for the axe to fall. 

“Yeah, he loves to draw. Draws all kinds of things. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, spooky houses,” Dean explains, pulling out the _oo_ in “spooky,” making shapes in the air with his hands. 

Eyes wide, she stares at Sam, her voice hushed. “Aren’t those things scary?” 

Sam fidgets even more, making the necklace sway, and finally just shakes his head. 

“Well, aren’t you brave!” She beams down at him. “I’ll go find you those crayons then.” 

Bobby thinks that Dean’s about to break something, grinning like that and it only gets worse when Judith mouths _He’s so shy_ , tipping her head at Sam. 

As soon as she leaves, Sam flips Dean off and Dean throws back the gesture, then they’re cussing each other out until Bobby has to smack the table. 

“You gotta act your age,” he whispers, groans as he realizes what he’s said. “I mean, act what you look like.” 

“Monkeys?” 

“Speak for yourself, dickface.” 

“You really have regressed, haven’t you, Dean?” 

“I’m not the one getting crayons.” 

The shoving almost upsets their glasses of milk. 

And there’s that headache, stronger than ever. 

** 

The older woman is at their booth, sans coffee pot, hand on her hip, eyes twinkling. 

“So who’re these two handsome gentlemen?” 

“Marietta, these are my nephews,” Bobby says, “Sam and Dean. Boys, Marietta.” 

“Why, Bobby Singer, you never mentioned nephews!” She slaps him lightly on the shoulder with her notepad, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. 

“They’re delinquents, real terrors,” he says, ignoring Dean’s affronted expression and Sam’s snickering. “They don’t get up here much. Too busy getting into trouble.” 

“Well, you are welcome to my diner any time, boys,” she says, winking, “we’ve got the finest cheeseburgers around, lots of cheese, and the fries ain’t too bad neither.” 

Dean nods, almost drooling. 

“That sounds good. Why don’t we get a round of cheeseburgers for everybody.” If Bobby orders, maybe he can cut down on the arguments and cussing from the mouths of babes. 

“Extra fries,” Dean says, then “Please,” when Sam nudges him. 

“You got it.” Marietta takes up their menus, about to zip away, then she does a slow turn. “Didn’t you used to come in here with another fella? Had two boys about this age. You get to see them anymore?” 

Dean stiffens, Sam stares resolutely out the window and Bobby rearranges his cap. “That was awhile back. Your memory’s amazing, Marietta.” 

She laughs, bright and shining. “I’m a waitress and owner of this here diner. You better believe my memory’s sharp as a tack. Only way I stay in business.” 

He figures she needs some sort of response and maybe if he says it, then it’ll be true. “Matter of fact, their dad taught ‘em right. They grew up into fine young men.” Sam pinches Dean under the table. “They’re doing real good. Moved away, but I see them every now’n again. Gotta keep tabs on the rascals.” 

“Glad to hear it. He always looked so sad, that other fella.” Marietta taps her orange polished nails on the menus. “And them boys, poor things, I think they were in their own little world.” 

The window keeps fascinating Sam and Dean moves his silverware around. 

Glancing across the table at the boys in the booth, Bobby thinks that he’ll be stuck, left here remembering, as if the past is never gone. 

** 

Dean’s talking fast around his fries, telling Bobby about the necromancer that cursed them before his house exploded. 

“It just went up like kindling!” 

“No thanks to you two arsonists,” Bobby says, sighing when Dean takes it as a compliment and grins messily at him, all spotted ketchup, and he leans on his hand, thinking, _That explains the soot._

Clutching at the crayons, Sam draws some of the symbols they saw around the “dilapidated” (Sam’s description), “piece of shit” (Dean’s description) altar in the basement. Bobby’s trying to ignore the fact that Sam’s standing on the seat of the booth to push the paper closer. 

“Son of a bitch had a spell going when we got there and—“ 

“You just burst right in—“ 

“Blaze of glory, Sammy—“ 

“Sheer stupidity, Dean, it’s called sheer stupidity.” 

Dean reaches over, snaps the red crayon in half and dammit if Sam doesn’t look like he’s about to cry. 

“You didn’t know what was happening there. You could’ve died!” Face flushed, Sam’s almost shrieking and Marietta appears out of nowhere. 

“Hey, big guy, you like pie?” she asks, leaning across the table to scoop up Sam. “Got all kinds of dessert. You wanna pick one out?” 

That’s it. Bobby’s quadrupling her tip. 

Sam still looks furious, but he nods, chubby hand pushed into his curls and she carries him off, asking him questions about pie and ice cream and cake. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean double-checks that they’re gone, then he hunches forward. “Bobby, when Sam started…molting or whatever, I thought that…” He pushes fries in trails through ketchup. “I thought that Sam would be a baby again and I’d be stuck even smaller than this, us in the Impala, middle of nowhere or…” 

“Or?” 

“…He’d just keep going…disappear completely.” 

His expression is absolute despair, his eyes older than the rest of him. 

It’s the same infinite flatness he had when Sam died in the mud and here he is, nine years old, wearing that heartbreak. 

There’s nothing Bobby can say. Nothing at all.

They sit for a bit, moving the remains of food around, then there’s the sound of Sam’s bare feet slapping on the tiles as he marches back with Marietta in tow. A slice of pie for Bobby, a slice for Sam, then Sam’s shoving a plate at Dean, saying, “I got one for you too, jerk.” 

As Dean pushes his brother into the booth, Bobby hears him say, “Thanks, bitch.” 

** 

Next morning, Bobby’s staring at Sam’s drawings, smiling that each symbol is in a different waxy color. He hears the tumbling on the stairs, voices in the kitchen, then after a little while, they both stumble into the study.

Dean carries a mug, sipping like his life depends on it; when Sam pats his leg, he hands the mug to Sam and they trade it back and forth. 

Bobby gets them settled on the couch; they all start reading, searching for the symbols and the curse and either how to reverse it or how long it’ll take to wear off. 

The morning passes by. Sam’s almost lost in the accumulated stacks of books and they’re jittery, shoving at each other, giggling, Dean heaping papers on Sam’s head, Sam throwing things at Dean. 

After scowling at them for a bit, Bobby figures it out and flatly denies them coffee until they’re normal again.

Over loud protests, he herds them out to the car for a trip to the grocery store, mumbling, “I should make you two run there, get rid of all this energy.” 

They aren’t at the store long before Bobby has to commandeer the cart from Dean who switches between walking sedately down the aisles, tossing things willy-nilly into the cart or racing off with it, Sam trying to chase him down, his brother’s name like the wailing of a police siren. 

Sam looks crushed the first time he goes to fetch something for Bobby and can’t reach it. 

In the end, under the threat of cleaning Bobby’s study, Dean walks next to the cart, holding Sam’s hand and they whisper to each other. 

Bobby has the uneasy feeling they’re planning a mutiny. 

But all is forgiven when they discover over steaks that the curse should only last about a week. 

Sam and Dean fall asleep on the floor in front of the fire, necklaces twisted, arms tangled around books and each other. 

If Bobby’s done his math correctly, this should be Day Two. 

Sam rolls over, kicks Dean in his sleep and Dean halfheartedly punches him in the back. 

Five more days to go. 

Or so. 

** 

“Sam, are you tattling on your brother?” Bobby’s headache never really went away, it was just hiding, dammit. 

Little fingers spinning the ring around and around, Sam shakes his head, looking insulted. “No, but c’mon, Bobby, he’s going to hurt himself.” 

Dean woke up that morning and decided to reenact all his childhood stunts. 

There was the time he hotwired one of the old junkers and tried to drive without tires. 

The time he jumped off the roof of Bobby’s porch. 

The time he attempted to make suits of armor so he and Sam could joust. 

The time he wanted to climb to the top of Bobby’s house. 

The time he tried to topple one of the wreck piles. 

The time he set up an obstacle course using the cars and spare tractor pieces (including plowing blades) and installed Sam off to the side with a stopwatch. 

Bobby’s got a list somewhere. He remembers telling Sam to stand up to his brother because John would give Dean a dressing-down fit for any soldier and Sam would wrap himself around Dean’s legs and take the punishment too. 

He knows now that Sam went along to keep an eye on Dean, that there’s nothing in the world the two of them together couldn’t handle. Later, Sam stood up to Dean in so many ways that had nothing to do with stupid stunts though Bobby thinks he might’ve been standing up to John as well for those punishments meted out so long ago. 

“He’s done those before and he’s fine,” Bobby says, but Sam stops him. 

“Dean didn’t do them all.” He takes a big breath. “There were others he had planned.” 

Like jumping from Bobby’s house into the smashed cars. 

Like hopping from wreck pile to wreck pile. 

Like getting in Bobby’s tow truck and using the chains and hook for various nefarious means that he wouldn’t even tell Sam, “It’ll be a surprise!” 

It’s only Day Three. 

** 

Day Four. 

Coffee, the newspaper and Bobby’s got some theories. Three, in fact. 

Theory one. 

Basically being kids again, they have the energy of kids. Again. This means Dean roaring through the house after a blur that has to be Sam. Sam’s natural curiosity manifests itself physically because it seems like there’s four of him and he’s into everything. _Again_. Bobby can take care of this easily, dumping Dean amongst engine parts and tools and trapping Sam with a huge book across his lap and the promise of even more books. That keeps them quiet. For a few hours. 

Theory two. 

Being kids means their fights turn a lot more physical. It’s harder to fight anywhere properly when they’re at their full height, both being over six foot and Sam’s reach is staggering anyway. Now it means that Dean can pounce on Sam a lot easier for headlocks, noogies, Indian burns, basic big brother tormenting. But Sam always was sneakier; his patience and size help him hide anywhere and his weapon of choice is a flying tackle, usually with a good running start. Except for the few times Bobby’s seen him jump off the back of the couch, knocking Dean flat to the floor. Like he did a few minutes ago. 

Theory three. 

Inexplicably, the curse kept their ages proportionate; Bobby’s grateful for this because if they were the same age, same size, he might have to break down and drink. Or cry. But it gives them the chance to be big brother-little brother again, even with the shouts of “Fuck this shit!” and “Let go of me, motherfucker, that hurt, you asshole!” and Sam lecturing Dean on why there can’t be martians on Jupiter because “One, they’re not ‘martians,’ it’s not Mars, that’s where the name comes from. Two, it’s a gaseous planet. They wouldn’t look like that, Dean, what’re the tentacles supposed to hold on to?” “They’re like squids in water, Sammy, _squids_.” “Whatever. They aren’t _martians_.” They’re enjoying themselves, playing pranks, tossing a baseball though Bobby finds them sometimes on the porch just staring at the sky, old souls in small bodies, unaware of their linked fingers. 

Bobby scans the newspaper, drinks his coffee. Behind him, there’s a crash, like books toppling, something shattering. 

Make that four. Bobby’s got four theories. 

Theory Four. 

He thinks he might really, really, really miss them being normal. 

** 

Day Five. 

Someone’s screaming Bobby awake. 

Stomping down the hall, he thinks, _This ain’t gonna be pretty._

Just like he thought, it ain’t. Sam’s standing on the bed, yelling at the top of his lungs, hands in tight white-knuckled bundles, and Dean’s sprawled on the floor, mouth open in shocked fury, holding his face where a bruise is already coming up on his cheekbone. 

For once, they’re acting their ages, using words instead of fists (except for the one punch Dean didn’t see coming), but they won’t tell him what the fight is about. 

Sam refuses to talk to Dean all the way down the stairs, to the kitchen, through breakfast and he slouches sullenly at the table. 

Bobby stops trying to ask what happened because they may be mad at each other, but they share a stony stubborn silence that locks Bobby out. 

A thought hits him and he disappears upstairs, rifles through their bags. Jingling and he’s found his prize. 

The keys to the Impala stay with him. Dean upset is Dean trying to drive somewhere and even if he’s tall enough to reach the pedals, Bobby’s not letting him leave. 

He’s got some weapons that need cleaning, so he sets up shop with Dean on one side and Sam on the other, but Sam’s fingers are so small that it makes Bobby nervous. Book in hand, Sam wanders off to a chair, climbing up to disappear behind Stephen King and it’s almost unsettling watching him read. 

It doesn’t take long before Bobby hears the back door slam; Sam’s restless with angry energy and Dean’s frozen, moving only enough to clean the pieces around him. 

After a few hours, Dean’s actually talking in sentences. Bobby decides to wait until there’s whole paragraphs and by then, it’s past lunchtime as Dean tells him about when Sam almost set his hair on fire. 

Time heals all wounds or some crap, so Bobby sends Dean out to wrangle his brother into the house for food. He hears the door slam and digs out a beer, enjoying the endless well of quiet. 

Peace might be too much to expect, but it sure would be nice. 

What he doesn’t expect is Dean barreling into the kitchen, out of breath, frantic, tears making his eyes greener and lighter. 

“I can’t find Sam!” he blurts between gasps for air. _Sam_ , not Sammy, and Bobby knows that the fight earlier was a real fight, not Dean pushing Sam’s buttons or vice versa. 

Dean’s slender frame is shaking as Bobby gets a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t find him, Bobby. He’s gotta be in the salvage yard somewhere, but he doesn’t answer when I call him and he’s so _tiny_ again, I don’t –“

Glass of water, but he’s about to drop it and Bobby holds it steady for him as he takes big gulps. “It’s ok, kid, it’s ok. Sam won’t do anything stupid, you know that. He probably just fell asleep or something.” 

Precaution, Bobby grabs a gun on their way out the door, Dean a few steps ahead of him and he spots the gun tucked into the waistband of Dean’s makeshift pants. 

It makes Bobby want to curse a blue streak, probably light into John Winchester while he’s at it, but this is the Dean he knows, the man he grew up to be, sprinting in dirty socks hitched up to his knees. 

The sun beats down on them, the heat thick as they yell for Sam, Bobby tracking Dean with his high calls for his brother. They peer in broken windows and snarled metal, under cars and trucks and old rusting heaps. 

The afternoon turns windy, the humidity swelling, the sunlight slowly disappearing as clouds start to drift faster overhead. Bobby’s well on his way to being as panicked as Dean; he’s so used to the boys taking care of themselves, except in the extreme circumstances that crop up during hunting. He’s been so lulled by their adultness that he’d looked past their physicality though he knows what he told Dean is true: Sam is Sam and he wouldn’t do anything stupid, no matter how angry he is with Dean. 

They’re at the fringes of the yard when Dean’s shouts for Sam evaporate. 

“Dammit.” 

It’s too hot to be running, but Bobby doesn’t think twice, weaving towards the last place he heard Dean. 

No one, just the wind picking up around the wrecks and storm clouds gathering beyond the trees. 

“Dean! Sam!” 

Tracing his steps, Bobby runs back and there, at the end of the row, is Dean. 

He’s carrying Sam, his little brother clinging to him, arms and legs wrapped around Dean. 

Relief douses Bobby and he shakes his head, tugging on his cap. Dean brushes Sam’s hair off his cheek. “I found him over there, asleep in one of the cars.” Calm as a lake, as if he hadn’t just been on the edge of a nervous breakdown, he shifts to hold Sam better, freeing a hand, and pulls the book from his pocket. “Here.” 

They walk to the house, Sam dozing, lightning streaking the sky and no sooner are they on the porch than it starts to rain. Rumbles of thunder wake Sam briefly, blinking hazel, saying, “Bobby, hey,” before he grasps tighter onto Dean and tucks his face into Dean’s shirt. 

Bobby needs a drink and a chair. He refills the glass of water, fetches himself a beer and heads to the study. 

On the couch, Dean’s stretched out on his back. Like a starfish, limbs everywhere, Sam is sprawled on Dean’s chest. 

They’re asleep. 

He watches them, drinking the water, then the beer, listening to the storm outside. 

_John, you ever see this?_

Flash of lightning, crack of thunder. 

_They scare me like that again, I might kill ‘em._

** 

There are a few constants from day to day. 

They create a ritual with the safety pins, methodically unpinning and re-pinning, completely absorbed in the task, because Bobby wouldn’t let Dean run around in the same boxers and Sam was simply disgusted.

The grubby length of electrical wire doesn’t leave Sam’s neck, Dean’s ring resting against his stomach. Which means that now they both have something to grab during brawls. 

Every night, they sleep coiled together in one of the two twin beds in the bedroom Bobby has always thought of as theirs ever since John stopped by the first time. 

It’s always the same, the two of them sleepily arranged so that Dean’s body is between the door and Sam. 

** 

Day Six. 

Dean seems agitated, as if he can sense something Sam and Bobby can’t. He mumbles some words about target practice, snatching up a gun, ammo, and some throwing knives and stalks out of the house. 

Sam glances at Bobby across a bowl of cereal and Bobby shrugs. He can tell by the way Sam’s wriggling in the chair that he wants to follow his brother, but Bobby says, “Nah, Sam, leave him out there. ‘Sides, I don’t think you should be handling weapons.” 

His expression telegraphs _you’re joking_ , but Sam doesn’t argue. Instead he stoically finishes his cereal, bounces out of his chair, pushes it over to the sink, scales it and turns around, sponge in one hand. “Bring me your dishes.” 

Bobby laughs, Sam standing there like a little general, serious and demanding. He nods, says, “All right, you wash, I’ll dry.” 

He always knew Sam was smart. 

It’ll be good to give everyone a chance to breathe. 

They work in comfortable silence, Bobby leaning one hip against the counter because it takes Sam a little while to clean his way around a plate. After a few minutes, there’s already water down the front of Sam’s shirt and along the edge of the sink. 

The air cracks once, then again, again, again and again. Sam sighs. “Dean probably didn’t tell you, he’d be too embarrassed.” 

“What?” 

Mouth twitching, Sam says, “Took us a long time to drive here.” 

“I know he didn’t get lost.” 

The sponge swishes as Sam giggles, mischievous grin wide on his tiny face. “He wouldn’t let the car get above 35.” He waggles his hands in the soapy water, still laughing and Bobby takes a moment to process what he said.

“Dean made you drive 35 all the way here?” 

“Yeah, kept yelling at me to give it gas or use the brake. One point, I almost just hit the brakes and made us sit there in the road until he calmed down. He was so skittish.” 

Hair in his eyes, he tries to push it back, but his hands are wet, so Bobby combs it sideways. 

“Thanks.” Sam hands him a plate. “He didn’t want me down there, wanted to do everything himself, but I said I could help.” 

Bobby waits; he knows there’s more, focuses on drying the plate until it squeaks. 

Sure enough, voice sad and pitiable, “I thought he’d let me steer.” 

And Bobby has to set the plate down before he drops it, laughing. 

More shots out in the yard, pings of metal this time. The air is tight around the house and Bobby thinks he could ask about the argument yesterday though he probably won’t get an answer. 

He’ll give it two or three more plates. 

Shot after shot after shot and Sam’s getting annoyed, puffs of breath escaping him. “He’s gonna go through all your ammo.” 

“Always more where that came from.” 

Forks, spoons, knives that Bobby eyes warily, a bowl or two, Sam’s tongue peeking out between his lips, caught in his teeth. 

A plate. Two. 

Bullets in the yard and what might be Dean singing loudly. 

Right now, at this moment, Bobby’s glad he’s got Dean’s keys and he figures if he’s going to jump off a cliff, now’s a good a time as any. 

“What did you two fight about the other day?” 

Sam keeps washing like he didn’t hear the question, so Bobby lets it pass, turning away to put things in drawers and cabinets. It’s not his business unless they’re snapping at each other’s throats, hurting and not pulling their punches. Then he’ll make it his business because – 

“With Dean, us young like this…” Clinking of glasses as Sam swipes at some bubbles. “He’s going through everything again or…something.” 

Uncertainty in his tone, little forehead crinkled, Sam’s trying to work through it. All Bobby can do is listen with an idea where this is going, but then Sam gazes up at him, bright hazel. 

“He still thinks I’m gonna leave someday.” 

It’s like a past version of Sam predicting the future, the times Dean will lose him so many years after his fifth birthday. But frustration threads through the words as Sam denies any such fate, regardless of the past, present or future. 

Under normal circumstances, Bobby would know the right thing to say. But these ain’t normal circumstances. 

He clears his throat and what comes out is, “You know Dean’s always been a pain in the ass.” 

And then Sam almost topples over, laughing so hard that he’s clutching at the chair for balance. They finish the dishes, Sam telling about when Dean burned down an entire cemetery, their laughter rolling in waves, listening to Dean shoot the living hell out of broken down cars. 

When Bobby goes out in the yard, the shots have stopped and it takes Bobby a little while to find Dean. The day is clouding over; around a heap of cars, there he is, standing in sliding patches of sunshine, disheveled dark blonde hair catching the light. He’s so wiry, stance wide and determined as he flips a knife in his fingers before he throws it, the movement easy and graceful, child-quick. Buried in the piece of wood Dean dragged from somewhere, the knife is still shaking and he’s already holding another one, testing the balance, complete concentration underneath his freckles. 

Dean’s dangerous at any age and Bobby knows better than to sneak up on him when he’s holding a weapon, so he puts his hands in his pockets, waiting. Dean takes a deep breath, hurls the knife, then wipes his hands together, clearly satisfied with the heavy _thunk_. 

“Hey kid.” 

He isn’t startled, just disgruntled which Bobby takes as par for the course. “Going through withdrawal?” 

Yanking the knives out of the wood, Dean snorts. “Something like that. Sure would be nice to be on the road.” 

No offense meant, Bobby can tell. It’s just that tenacious single-mindedness, that endless impulse, something that bled off of John and Dean soaked it up like a thirsty desert. He’s squinting at Bobby, thin arms crossed, hands silver with the blades, and dammit, the boy is practically vibrating with the need to be in motion, driving, hunting. 

And with whatever it is that pushed him out here to fire guns and blades at the world. 

“Where’s Sam?” The question is casual, but beneath it, Bobby can hear the anxiety. 

“He’s juggling an AK-47, a few rattlesnakes, a bear trap, some old grenades, and a jar of bees,” Bobby snaps and Dean’s eyes flash. “Whaddya think, ya idjit? He’s got that computer humming, searching for new hunts.” 

Dean glances away, toying with a knife. “This fucking sucks,” he says finally, tugging at his scissor-shortened shirt. “After yesterday…” 

“After yesterday nothing. You know he’s still Sam, the older Sam, just miniature.” It sounds stupid. Bobby really hates curses. “It’s not like he’s really that young, afraid of the dark and monsters, needing you to clean up after him.” 

Smirking, Dean gathers up the gun and bullets, sauntering back to the house. “I’m always having to clean up after him. You have no idea what his socks smell like. Something died in his duffle, I swear. Sometimes I don’t think he ever learned to do laundry.” 

The clouds break up the heat, shadows drifting cool as Bobby says, “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

A huge sigh, annoyance and Dean looks so put upon. “It’s Sam, big fucking geek with all his dorky habits, but…I can pick him up again and…he should’ve stayed that innocent.” 

Suddenly, he stops walking and Bobby almost trips over him. “Once when he was three, he jumped off the bed and hit his head. He bled so much, it was everywhere and I just couldn’t…Dad was gone somewhere, buying salt or guns or something, I forget.” 

His face contorts. “I encouraged him. Sam was laughing and smiling and it was fun, but then, next thing I know, he’s crying, screaming. It was my fault, but I couldn’t fix it. He was so…breakable.” 

Dean doesn’t notice as Bobby takes the weapons from him and settles a hand on Dean’s back, sparrow wing shoulder blades, stock-still, body rigid. “Sam looks the same age he was when he started asking all those questions about...I don’t think I…” 

His lips press together. 

Without another word, Dean jogs to the house, the back door slamming behind him. Gripping the gun and knives, Bobby hurries after him, attempting to not appear concerned and irritated. 

In the study, Sam’s flopped on his stomach, feet waving in the air, necklace tossed around his neck so the ring rests on his back. The laptop’s open in front of him and he’s staring at it intently as if he’s reading a bodice-ripper. As Dean tears through the doorway, Bobby on his heels, he glances up and waves at the screen. 

“Mysterious mutilations and decapitations, Dean,” Sam says with a knowing grin. “Right up your alley.” 

Faster than greased lightning, Dean tackles Sam and gets him in headlock. “Damn straight.” 

“Stop it!” Sam fights back, then he shrieks; Dean’s holding him down, one-handed, tickling Sam furiously. 

“Wow, this is so much easier.” 

Flailing fists and Sam clocks Dean before they tumble to the floor. 

Rolling his eyes, Bobby wanders off to put the weapons away. 

** 

Day Seven. 

When he knocks on their door in the morning, Bobby finds them sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other, their knees touching as they play poker. Their currency is bullets, but instead of clearing a space for the pot, they keep track in their heads, an old trick John taught them. They have to follow the antes, the calls, the raises and do the math. John’s form of poker helped their memories and observational skills. Bobby doesn’t doubt that he did it to survive those long hours in the car too. 

They all troop downstairs, Dean muttering darkly under his breath as Sam crows about his victory, “Like taking candy from a baby.” 

“Shut up, squirt.” 

Bobby gives them coffee and doesn’t regret it. 

“If we’re lucky, it’ll be today.” 

“You mean, if _I’m_ lucky.” 

“Tired of us already, Bobby?” 

They grin at him, working to appear angelic, wide gleaming green and hazel eyes, sleep-tousled hair. 

He covers his own grin with a cough. “Eat your breakfast.” 

Dean exaggerates poisoning by Bobby’s cooking while Sam insults the eggs, stretching every vowel imaginable. 

“How old are you again? I mean it, you keep this up and I’ll make it permanent.” 

It seems like they’re all holding their breaths. Bobby’s curious to see it happen, if they’ll “molt” forward into their huge frames and long limbs. Another squabble and he hopes it doesn’t happen in the middle of their scrapping; he’s only got so much furniture. 

He makes the mistake of asking what they want to do. 

“Watch porn.” The words pop out of Dean’s mouth so rapidly, he’s almost spitting. 

Bobby and Sam stare at Dean and their expressions must be something awful because Dean juts his chin out, defensive. “What.” 

They speak simultaneously. “No, Dean.” High voice, grumbly voice combined with absolute repulsion. 

“Aw, c’mon, what, so I look like this, big fucking deal.” 

“It is a big fucking deal, Dean, I do _not_ need that image in my head,” Sam says behind his hands. 

“Yeah, I’m with Sam on this one.” 

Dean glares at them. “Fine. What’re your brilliant ideas, geniuses?” 

They play baseball, but Dean doesn’t take pity on Sam, treating him like he’s still his adult size. Insults and taunts fly through the air fast and thick before a ball goes through one of Bobby’s windows. Then it’s insults and taunts indoors, picking up glass shards. Dean injures his arm, which ends with Sam relegating him to the hallway with a few choice words, something along the lines of “stay there, you idiotic moron.” Dean’s about to protest, but Sam’s eyes blaze and Bobby can see the Sam he knows in the little bones of the Sam in front of him. 

“All right, all right, keep your safety-pinned panties on.” 

Stopping by the diner to get some burgers to go, Marietta deposits them in a booth and brings out huge banana splits: whipped cream, nuts, cherries, hot fudge and butterscotch, the works. It’s all fun and games until Sam eats so much he turns green, then Dean takes Sam by the hand, escorting him to the bathroom, double-time. 

Handfuls of wet paper towels and a settled stomach later, they’re on their way out to the parking lot, Marietta tells them to come back for burgers. Sam goes green again and they drive away, Dean hollering for him not to puke in, on or along the side of Bobby’s car. 

Fresh air, that’s all Sam needs; they pull over by an empty field, the engine ticking as Dean kneels in the dirt, “Hurry up, Sammy, never get this opportunity again.” Sam warily crawls onto Dean’s back and Dean hefts him up with a grunt as Sam’s arms go around his neck. 

“I remember your piggyback rides, Dean, you always—“ 

Then, hands hooked under Sam’s knees, Dean streaks away, running full tilt, Sam’s voice streaming out behind them in a wail of surprise. 

Bobby laughs, leaning against the car, shading his face as he watches the two tiny dots. A loud squeal and Dean trips, the two of them going ass over tea kettle. 

Taking his time, Bobby strolls out to them. Dean lolls on the ground as Sam sits on his chest, knees up like a frog, face split in a blinding smile. Dean tries to say something, but Sam thwaps him. He leans down, necklace swinging, the ring smacking Dean in the chin and whispers to him, hands cupping his mouth. 

Dean nods; in one smooth movement, he scoops up Sam and stands. 

Dirt crumbles off them in bits and chunks and Bobby thanks his lucky stars again for tiled bathrooms. 

What happens next destroys all of Bobby’s dignity. 

“Bobby.” 

“What?” 

“Catch.” 

Unadulterated terror as Dean throws Sam, Sam pushing off his chest and Bobby scrambles to grab him. 

He’s knocked breathless on his ass by two grown men disguised as boys. After Sam checks his pulse, they carefully lay his cap over his face. 

“Didn’t mean to kill you, Bobby.” 

“Yeah, sorry about that, old man.” 

Resting there is much – no, he’s not resting, he’s waiting for his chance for revenge. 

When he gets to his feet, Sam’s on Dean’s back again, the two of them talking low, suspended within their own bubble as they walk to the car. 

“I _will_ leave you here!” he calls after them. 

“Not if we get to the car first!” 

The race is on. 

Bobby wins because he has the keys. 

“You can call us little shits or something.” 

“Unlike you, Dean, not everyone has the compulsion to call people names.” 

“C’mon, Sam, you know he wants to.” 

And that’s the truth. “You _are_ little shits. Proud of yourselves?” 

They beam at him. 

Marietta brings out their burgers in paper bags, grease splotches on the sides and wisely doesn’t comment on their general filthy appearance. 

Dean eats almost all the fries before they get to the house. 

The bathroom gets another drenching, using up all of Bobby’s towels. 

The three of them play poker until Sam’s yawns threaten to knock him sideways. 

Bobby seems to be the only one disappointed that there’s no “molting” yet. 

** 

Day Eight. 

Up early, Bobby reads, wanting to be prepared in case Dean and Sam don’t change back during the course of the day. This should be the very last day unless something was mistranslated and it could be ten days instead of seven, but curses aren’t always precise. 

It’s not like he has a calculator for this.

A quiet day, a rare one lately, sunshine slanting in through the windows, dust motes floating as Bobby turns a page. 

The quiet makes him restless because he isn’t waiting, nope, he’s not counting as the clock ticks, no, he’s drinking coffee and enjoying the quiet. 

He tugs on his cap and hunkers back down to reading and he's losing the restless feeling, legs tucked under his chair. 

Then there’s a thump overhead followed by a riotous crash. 

Today, Bobby takes that as a good sign. 

Two pages later, Dean appears in the kitchen, rubbing at his backside and ribs. “Sam’s a freakish gigantor again.” 

His older gaze finally matches the rest of him. 

He’s his own age and height, voice deep and gravelly with sleep, looking rumpled as he winces, eyes closing. “Kinda got shoved out of bed.” 

It sounds weird, but Bobby would’ve paid to see that; he thinks it best to keep his snickering to himself. 

Collecting a cup of coffee, Dean lowers himself gently into a chair. “And good thinking about the boxers there, Bobby.” 

There’s a shining pile of safety pins in the downstairs bathroom which left them waddling around in swaths of fabric before going to bed. 

“Well, all those sharp points, wouldn’t want you to bust something when it happened.” 

Dean salutes him with his mug. He twists to pop his back, breath leaving him in a pained rush. “No more piggyback rides for Sam.” 

“Ah, the side effects of being young.” Bobby doesn’t hold back his smirk. “All beat up now. I guess we know who to blame for that.” 

“Of course,” Dean says, nodding seriously, “Sam.” 

“What.” Sam in the doorway, hair askew, necklace lopsided, still wearing a cut-off shirt that seems shrunken on his normal frame. 

“You trying to seduce us with your belly, Sam? Dance for us, baby,” Dean says, pokes him where the shirt ends in frayed threads. 

Scowling, Sam strips the shirt off and doesn’t respond until there is caffeine in his system. “At least I’m not the one who fell out of bed and made a huge ruckus.” 

“I didn’t ‘fall,’ I was pushed. By you. Not my fault.” 

“Not my fault either.” 

“Yeah, it is, fucker, you and your bizarre sasquatch genes.” 

“We share the same DNA, dummy, it’s just pitiful that you ended up so short.” 

“I got all the looks.” 

Sam huffs into his coffee. “I think you need to adjust your mirror.” 

“You need to adjust your face.” 

Bobby just sits and watches them bicker. 

** 

He has never heard such happy chirping noises as the two of them change into their real clothes (he thinks he should charge them, “Thanks for the laundry, Bobby”), no safety pins required. 

Dean stands by the front door as Sam carts their bags out to the Impala, parked crooked right where they left her. 

Bobby’s sad that he missed seeing them in the car, two kids working in tandem to drive a pokey 35 miles per hour. He ducks his head, letting the brim of his cap hide his smile. 

“Bags. Guns. Clothes, thank God,” Dean mumbles to himself. “Keys.” He checks his pockets and the resulting lack of jangle makes him tilt his head. 

Until Bobby jiggles them at him. 

He looks surprised and a bit sheepish, hand going to the back of his neck as Bobby gives them to him. “Oh yeah, uh, thanks, Bobby. Safe-keeping.” 

“That’s what I’m good at,” Bobby replies and Dean smiles, clapping him on the shoulder. No need to tell him anything else. 

“Where was I? Keys. Wallet. Phone. Sam. Oh wait.” 

Sam’s squeezing by and Dean grabs him by the arm. “Hey hey, slow down, Speedy, where’s my ring?” He curls his fingers in a hurried _gimme gimme_ motion. 

“Speedy? You’re the one who’s been harassing me to—“ Sam rolls his eyes, then his expression is quick embarrassment, pulling the electrical wire necklace from under his shirt. He shoots a glance at Bobby, a small shrug like _I tried_ and Bobby wonders if he was waiting to see how long he could keep it, how long it would take Dean to remember. 

Long fingers untie the misshapen knot and he carefully slips the ring off before handing it back with a frowning “Here you go, jerk.” 

Dean takes it from him, sliding it on his finger, then he pats Sam on the cheek. 

“Damn right, bitch, trying to steal it, thief, I think this calls for some punishment.” His hand skids to Sam’s neck; a headlock, Sam already shoving at Dean, but Bobby’s pushing them out the door. 

“You two gonna keep that up, you fight out there. I don’t need my house falling down around my ears.” 

They wind down fast though, groans of pain and popping joints that accompany them out to the car. 

Then Sam’s back on the porch, grabbing Bobby for a hug. “Thanks. We appreciate it and—“ 

“Yeah, yeah, your brother’s gonna leave you behind.” 

“No, I won’t,” Dean says grumpily, stomping up the steps. “For some odd reason, dunno why.” He hugs Bobby tightly as Sam says, “Mysterious mutilations and decapitations, that’s why.” 

“That must be it. See ya, Bobby.” 

Then Bobby can’t resist. “Don’t drive too fast, _Speedy_.” And it’s worth it when Dean looks confused, then quickly angry as Sam throws his head back and laughs, free and booming. 

“You told him?” 

“I _had_ to, Dean, it was priceless.” 

“Bastard, I’m gonna shrink you again.” 

“C’mon and try it.” 

Hands in his pockets, Bobby watches them walk to the car, shining clean black in the sunlight. He blinks and they’re five and nine again, hands jostling each other, quarreling in their child voices. 

Climbing into the car, Sam waves, Dean nods; he blinks again and they’re the men he knows, peeling out in a cloud of dust and engine growls, leaving a line of music as they head for the road.


End file.
